


brittle bones and barcodes

by syndicates



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 17:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syndicates/pseuds/syndicates
Summary: The first time Noctis notices the wristband is in elementary school.The first time he asks about it is in high school.Prompto doesn't answer until much later.





	brittle bones and barcodes

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is what happens when i start rambling about how there wasn't enough hugging in final fantasy xv. basically, this is extremely self-indulgent fluffy wish fulfillment.
> 
>  **additional warnings:** there is implied self harm in this fic, as well as major plot spoilers for the main ffxv storyline as well as the episode prompto dlc.
> 
> a huge thank you and my eternal love go to [kae](https://twitter.com/cosmostasis), [mars](https://twitter.com/avaselm), and [droplet](https://twitter.com/JUNHUlSWEN) for not only doing a phenomenal job betaing this fic, but also for putting up with my endless rants about a game they haven't played.

_‘Drink after training.’_

The instructions are written in a precise penmanship that could only be Ignis’, on a note taped to the side of a small bottle. Despite scarcely being two years Noctis’ elder, he’s been acting like such a _parent_ lately. He’d probably made the concoction last night—he had slept over after spending hours picking up after the prince—and slipped it into his bag at breakfast.

Turning the plastic bottle over in his hand, Noctis frowns as the thick, vaguely brown substance flows with his movements, leaving in its wake a black, grainy residue.

Perhaps by force of curiosity, or perhaps merely to humor Ignis, Noctis twists open the cap and brings the bottle to his nose, cautiously sniffing at its contents. There’s a moment of inaction as the smell processes before he theatrically recoils, swiftly replacing the cap on top.

_Sorry, Ignis._

Standing up from the wooden bench and slinging his bag over his shoulder, Noctis scans the small room for a waste can. _Nothing,_ he concludes quickly, pursing his lips.

Special arrangements had been made as the end of the prince’s high school career drew nearer for typical physical education classes to be replaced by training with ‘the King’s Shield’ Gladiolus. Amber light pours through the windows, and Noctis’ surroundings are eerily still. He’s had to stay later than the other students, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not like normal school life is particularly consequential to him, nor him to it, outside of being the crown prince.

Before the thought can weigh too heavily on his mind, Noctis breaks for the door, opening it into the hallway. As he steps out, he absently sways the bottle back and forth. Eyes trained on the walls, the original intent of finding a trash bin had been all but immediately lost, not that it was of all that much importance anyways. The quiet is nice.

Noctis walks a bit before halting at the sound of shower stopping, hearing a door creak open.

“Prompto,” Noctis greets.

“Ah, hey, Noct!” Prompto chimes, a grin evident in his voice. “Gladio sure worked us hard today, huh? I just don’t think I’m cut out for all this…”  
Noctis allows himself a smirk watching Prompto search for the right phrase, easily pulling himself from his daze to conversation with the lively boy before him. “...all this sword stuff.”

“Yeah, he did,” Noctis agrees, the smile lingering at his lips. “But who knows, maybe with a little practice, we’ll call you ‘Five-Star Grandmaster Swordsman Prompto Argentum’!”

“Oh, come on, Noct. Not you, too!”

“Kidding, _kidding._ You’re better with a gun anyways.” In moving to rest his hand at his hip, Noctis remembers the bottle, and extends it towards his friend. “Here, if you’re that tired, drink this. Iggy made it.”

“Iggy?” Inquisitive as he takes the drink, Prompto eyes the note on the side before removing the cap to peer inside. “For you, though, I’d assume? Don’t you want it?”

“Nah.” The admission comes freely. “It smells.”  
  
“Huh.” Punctuated by a sniff and a shrug, Prompto seems less bothered by the mysterious liquid than the prince. “Well, it’s your loss.”  
  
Immediately taking it to his lips, Prompto easily downs at least a third of the bottle. And in eying his red-flushed face, Noctis isn’t surprised. Looks like Prompto definitely needs it more than he did.  
  
He’s quiet as his friend drinks, eyes wandering first to the windows opposite them and then finally to Prompto. He’s in a towel, hair dripping onto his face with another tossed lazily around his neck. Chosen for the Crownsguard, likely for his closeness to the crown prince, he’s been in rigorous training mode as well, as a late addition.  
His physique already shows the results; although previously of a slender and fit-looking build, a bit more muscle is visible on his arms, whereas they’d normally only be toned on his legs.  
  
Noctis doesn’t linger for too long before eyeing Ignis’ drink, of which Prompto has now downed half of. From there his eyes wander to the next noteworthy thing: a wristband.  
  
Noctis recognizes it, of course. It’s a familiar sight; Prompto wears it everyday, without fail. With its presence, it isn’t hard to place a prior identity: a bespectacled, clumsy elementary school kid. (‘Heavy,’ Noctis recalls pointing out, in aiding the kid from a fall.)  
  
_Did he… wear it in the shower?  
_  
The wetness of the cloth would suggest so, as would the obvious absence of other garments, be it clothes or accessories alike. Eying it further, Noctis notices a splotch of redness underneath that surely isn’t natural pigmentation—scratch marks?  
  
“Ah! That was tasty!”  
  
Blinking back to attention, Noctis smiles and laughs sheepishly. “Really? I’ll make sure to tell Specs when I get home.”  
  
“Hm? You headin’ out already?”  
  
Prompto seems unaware, or at the very least, unbothered by Noctis’ curious gaze. The normalcy of the conversation quells the apprehensive question at the tip of Noctis’ tongue; it’ll have to wait, filed into the library of fleeting, unspoken thoughts.  
  
“Yeah, I think so.”

 

 

“Prompto.”  
  
“Yeah?” A pause, to finish the last bite of his lunch. “What is it, Noct?”  
  
Prompto responds so _easily_. It reminds Noctis of just how many times a conversation between them must have started in near identical fashion—surely more than his two hands can count.  
  
But repetition doesn’t mean intimacy, and intimacy doesn’t mean repetition.  
  
His brows furrow at the thought, but in fixing his eyes forward, Noctis feigns nonchalance, setting down his own picked-at meal.  
  
“...Why bother wearing that wristband everyday?”  
  
At the surprising ease with which he’s able to ask the question, Noctis finds himself reclining into a closed-eyed grin, a breathy chuckle finding its way to his lips.  
“I mean, it’s so _dirty_ , it’s almost like you haven’t taken it off in years!”  
  
In the throes of flippant jest, Noctis doesn’t notice the recoil of his friend, the consequential whitening of knuckles around a wrist. In the end it’s a slight disturbance in the air next to him that signals a change; it’s minor, the mere act of Prompto standing up.  
  
“...I’unno,” he begins, voice drained of its usual exuberance. “Guess it’s just out of habit. It’s… a good luck charm, I guess.” Prompto affords himself another pause, futilely trying to make up for lost vigor. “Kinda… sorta.”  
  
With his back to Noctis, the hand with the wristband finds purchase on the nape of Prompto’s neck. The terry cloth garment is what catches Noctis’ attention, the still-visible splotch of reddened skin beneath. Gaze falling on Prompto’s back, Noctis cocks his head a bit, before the response—no, it’d better be called a _deflection_ —registers, and he pouts.  
  
But it’s temporary; he can read the situation enough to know that he’d better leave it at that. Prompto has never pried much into his own life, never even bothering to ask the superficial questions Noctis has become used to being bombarded with at school. And for that, he’s thankful.  
  
Pushing himself to his feet, Noctis allows his lips to curl into a grin as he closes the distance between them in slouched steps, resting an arm—and eventually his weight—onto Prompto’s shoulders.  
  
“Good enough reason for me,” he assures, gesturing towards the door leading back into the school. “Come on, we have class in a bit—better get going before we get yelled at again. Ignis will lose his mind if he finds out I skipped _another_ class.”  
  
Prompto seems startled by the ease with which Noctis is willing to change the subject, knowing the prince is smart enough to see through his excuse.  
  
“Heh, yeah. We should get going then, huh Noct?”

 

 

It only takes a few days for the wristband to morph into a black band, a change that Noctis pretends to overlook. The seasons seem to be in favor of shrouding the held secret, frigid air heralding the time of lengthening sleeves.  
  
Days and weeks pass without much payoff, a steady routine that Noctis is told from nearly all angles he should be thankful for, while he has it. At the thought, Noctis breathes a sigh, pulling on a school-issued t-shirt before heading dutifully for the training room, even if the drills and mock fights have jaded him with their repetition.  
  
“What’s it today, Gladio?” he asks, as he strides through the door and eyes the wooden practice weapons lined along the back wall.  
  
“Sparring.”  
  
The response he gets is curt, but Noctis doesn’t particularly mind; Gladio, especially in work mode, is never one to mince words. And besides, less talk means that they can finish faster. With that in mind, Noctis mechanically moves to scoop up a wooden greatsword, only now turning to Gladiolus and the rest of the room.  
  
The first thing he notes is that Gladio is in his streetwear.  
  
“Aren’t we—?”  
  
“Nope, not today.”  
  
Noctis cocks his head in vague confusion, the greatsword limpening in his grip so that the tip rested on the matted floor. “Then, who—”  
  
“Heya, Noct! Never thought the big guy would call me in for training like this!”  
  
At the lively greeting, Noctis twists to see Prompto behind him, grinning a bit sheepishly as he awkwardly brandishes a training sword. Was he there the whole time? Quirking an eyebrow, Noctis returns his gaze to Gladio, who seems ready with a prepared explanation.  
  
“You’ve fought me too many times. In the real world—” Noctis scoffs at the phrase, but Gladio continues, unperturbed. “—you won’t come across enemies of the same caliber, the same skill set.” Long strides bring him to Prompto’s side. “You need to practice dealing with ranged weapons.”  
  
Prompto lets out an audible whine as the wooden training sword is taken from his grasp, replaced with practice pistol.  
  
“You’ll be sparring with blondie today,” Gladio concludes, stepping off the mat to replace the seized weapon on a makeshift rack.  
  
“Works for me,” Noctis responds, resting the wooden blade over his shoulders with a cocky grin as he turns to face his friend. “ _Bring it._ ”

 

 

Surprisingly, the addition of a ranged projectile weapon throws Noctis a bit off guard, being someone used to training with Gladio’s surprisingly straightforward fighting style. The extra thought necessitated by more calculated strategy brings Noctis back to a time where he’d constantly be shown up and brought to frustration easily. But with time, he’s able to adjust, and bouts where he claims victory become more numerous.  
  
It happens when he finds an opening, and moves in to secure his win. In these training clothes, it’s the first time that Noctis notices the wristband again. Coming in from Prompto’s right side, he’s able to see a faint redness from underneath, paired with a few raised scars. Recalling past deflection, he grits his teeth as he lunges forward.  
  
“Eh?!”  
  
Easily disarmed with a (comparatively) skillful maneuver, it isn’t long before Noctis has Prompto pinned to the mat, straddling a slender waist while hands hold down arms. Noctis’ gaze is firm, immediately darting to the concealed wrist, begging a still yet unspoken question.  
  
A cocktail of disbelief and terror washes over Prompto’s features as his eyes dart to follow to the prince’s point of interest.  
  
“Th-This isn’t about—” he starts, voice frail as realization dawns on him, progressively higher pitched as he is backed into a corner.  
  
“I-It’s nothing you need to worry about, Noct–” Noctis can feel the arm in question yearn for release, and he supposes Prompto can feel his grip unconsciously tighten. “Er, Your High—”  
  
“ _Don’t fuck with me,_ ” Noctis begins, voiced hushed. “I thought we were friends, and yet you can’t tell me about—”  
  
The trembling of Prompto’s body changes rhythm now, a ‘hic’ interrupting the blind tirade that the prince had launched into. Dark eyes meeting Prompto’s blue ones, his face slackens as he begins to notice the weight of his aggressive impulse, hands immediately releasing as he works to stand.  
  
“Cryin’, blondie? Did the little prince beat you that bad?” Gladio’s husky voice resonates easily off the wooden walls of the training room, as he strides to meet the pair in the middle of the mat.  
  
Noctis casts his eyes to the ground as Gladio helps lift Prompto from the ground, who was clearly thankful that Gladio had cut off the conversation before it could progress. Noctis, on the other hand, is just thankful that it seems like Gladio couldn’t hear them.  
  
“Hmph, _no!_ ” Prompto’s saying. “My eyes are just watering from the fall—”  
  
“Sure thing, blondie,” Gladio interrupts, grinning as he walks to Prompto’s side, a hand coming down hard on his shoulder.  
  
The gesture quiets further protest from Prompto, and in the midst of the brief distraction, Noctis excuses himself from the conversation to set aside his practice weapon. He’s eyeing the clock on the wall, which proclaims that their practice has gone for an hour longer than normal.  
  
“You both did well today,” Gladio says with a smile in his voice. He turns and raises his voice a bit to address Noctis, who has his back to the pair. “I haven’t seen you so fired up in a while, Noct.”  
  
“Mm, must be the change of routine,” Noctis offhandedly remarks, already walking past him and Prompto to get to the door. “Well, see you tomorrow, then.”

 

 

Noctis tells himself that it’s in the hecticness of the next few months that he abandons the concern.  
  
The last year of general schooling signals a shift in his life: moved from his apartment and taken from a full-time life of normalcy found in school and part time jobs, he is to live once more in the Citadel. There, his lessons focus almost solely in the ways of politics and diplomacy, as well as continue his physical training.  
  
Carefree time able to be spent with his friends is limited further than ever, and those friends, his closest retainers, harden some in the face of these circumstances.  
  
_It’s lonely.  
_  
It’s a thought that Noctis had presumed he could go a lifetime without thinking. It bubbles up as he sits opposite Ignis, who absently scans over a packet of political happenings. The less tangible side of princehood, found in black ink and treaties, has never much appealed to him.  
  
“...I’m hungry,” Noctis mutters, mostly to himself as he rests a cheek on his palm, taking the paper in his grasp and allowing it to flutter closed.  
  
“The others and your father should be here shortly for dinner. Please be patient, Noct.” Punctuated by the flipping of a page, Ignis’ response bleeds preoccupation and the knowledge that forcing the prince to continue his work would be futile; Noctis takes it as a signal to be quiet, if only for a moment.  
  
Outside, the setting sun reflects almost blindingly off the modern skyscrapers of Insomnia, and Noctis finds his eyes following the streets to the bridge that leads to the greater Lucis. Hills shroud his view of anything farther beyond that, but from pictures Noctis can imagine it.  
  
Though not exactly eager to leave the comfortable confines of the Crown City, he’d be happy to leave behind the sterile process of becoming a monarch.  
  
“The Chosen King,” they say all too often, as if he’d forget. Tasks still obscure and incomprehensible to him loom, the only clear one being the most immediate: diplomatic marriage to Lady Lunafreya of Tenebrae, the Oracle.  
  
_Luna._  
  
Although clear that “love” has seldom to do with the arrangement, Noctis finds some remnant of comfort in the abstract fondness that had been forged between them in their youth. He’s not sure whether he’d place it within the same vein as he’s been told romantic love runs through, but it’s enough, for now.  
  
However, much grander are the reservations that he holds towards the arrangement; it represents his ascension, an inevitable fulfilling of parroted prophecies, the true end of the blitheness of princehood.  
  
Breathing another sigh and having nothing else to occupy his attention, Noctis returns it to Ignis. “How’re the new threads?” he asks absently, eyeing not the clothes but his hair, styled differently from what he’d grown used to. Not unlike him, he supposes, noting the preciseness that it seems to be styled with, just… _different.  
_  
This evening’s meal will represent the first gathering of the assembled Crownsguard—symbolic, mostly, as they don the freshly designed black uniforms of the entity.  
  
“Functional and well-tailored,” Ignis responds, a bit of annoyance seeping into his voice. “They’re well-suited for the job at hand.”  
  
Noctis wishes he’d gotten a less processed answer, but he supposes that from Ignis, this is the closest to casual he’ll get.  
  
Almost as if on cue, the heavy double doors are opened, granting King Regis as well as the final two members of the appointed Crownsguard entry into the dining room. Noctis sees Ignis rise from his chair to bow to the monarch out of the corner of his eye, but his focus falls on his father.  
  
He remains seated, but his posture still rights itself as his father enters his vision. Dark eyes pull first to the bottom of his figure, a limp thinly veiled with a walking stick. Noctis can’t force his eyes upward any further, upper teeth clamping down on his bottom lip as he diverts his gaze.  
  
A husky exhale from the King betrays his awareness of Noctis’ emotions, at least in part. It’s a mutual understanding, uncomfortable in its intimacy, though neither of them has ever found proper means to express it.  
  
It’s an odd affinity: superficially, the king and his heir apparent have lost much of the close father-son relationship that they had indulged in when Noctis was a child. However, it was thereafter replaced by the esoteric rapport of mutual understanding under the pressures of their forebears’ legacy.  
  
“Thank you, Gladiolus.”  
  
Regis’ voice is the one to break the silence, a low vocalization of gratitude as he helps the king into his seat at the head of the table. Ignis deftly collects both his own and Noctis’ report files, setting them aside before gracefully returning to his seat. Gladio similarly takes his own, wordlessly.  
  
_It’s odd,_ the prince finds himself thinking, _not seeing Gladio stationed at the door._  
  
At the thought, he turns his eyes to the men who have replaced him; although they of course have different features, the seriousness settled deep into each fine line is an uncanny duplicate to those on Gladiolus’ face.  
  
Eyes then venture to the last member of the new Crownsguard, the blond whom Noctis had easily befriended in school.  
  
Prompto seems out of place in the opulence of the Citadel; bright blue eyes dart about, hands remaining fixed at his front, fingers intertwined in a white-knuckled chokehold, as if he’s scared to touch anything.  
  
“Why don’t you take a seat, Prompto?” Regis says.  
  
“Ah—!” Prompto seems startled at the sudden addressing, his whole frame jolting as he’s forcibly pulled from his daze. “Y-Yessir! Right away, your Majesty!”  
It’s with clumsily quick movements that Prompto finds his way to a seat in between Ignis and Gladio, lips pulled taut as his face flushes crimson. Stiff in his rigidly straight posture, he keeps his hands in his lap, gaze trained on the grain of the wooden table.  
  
Watching the young man, Regis can’t help but chuckle.  
  
With the entire group now gathered and seated, he lulls his frame forward, interlocking his fingers while resting his elbows on the table.  
  
The relaxed postures of the king and the crown prince stand in stark contrast with the formality taken up by the three inductees, but neither seems to mind, as Regis gets straight to the matter at hand.  
  
“Has the marshal informed you all of the change to the Crownsguard’s official duties?”  
  
“Change of… duties? Now?” Noctis is the first to speak, his question breathless. The start brought by the suggestion brings the prince forward in his seat, gripping the arms with vise-like grips. An expectant silence quells his temper some, as he alters his response to be a direct answer to the question. “...No. I… I haven’t spoken with him in a few days.”  
  
Regis nods solemnly, watching as Noctis once more diverts his eyes. He then turns his attention then to the new inductees, posing the same question. “And you all? I understand he spoke with you when you received your fatigues yesterday.”  
  
Gladiolus is the next to answer, speaking diligently for himself as well as the two that were seated beside him. “He did, but I’m afraid he mentioned nothing of this much importance then, Your Majesty.”  
  
To this, the king closes his eyes in silent acknowledgement, leaning back as a parade of servers delicately arranges a place setting before each person seated.  
“Very well. It looks like the task of informing you all falls to me.”

 

 

“Hey, Prompto.”  
  
Catching up with Prompto after the party was dismissed was easy; he’s easily distracted by the intricate gilded murals that lined the walls of the Citadel. Noctis approaches with an unconcerned grin, chuckling at the noticeably startled jump.  
  
“Ah, Noct! I was just going, I just got, erm…” There’s a sheepish smile as a hand rises to rub the nape of his neck. “...distracted.”  
  
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. You’re part of the Crownsguard now.”  
  
“Heh. I guess you’re right.” Prompto doesn’t sound convinced, his faltering voice betraying his inhibitions. He continues pressing his hand to his neck, breathy chuckles punctuating his thought as he casts his eyes to the ground.  
  
“‘Protecting Insomnia and the people of Lucis’, huh? Some task we have. Remember when it was just ‘escort the Crown Prince to Altissia for his wedding’? I miss that already.”  
  
Noctis crosses his arms across his chest, a smile ghosting at his lips. “It’s not so different,” he tries, eyes habitually pulling towards the mural foretelling his task. “Just have to… protect everyone, I guess.”  
  
The last part is added more as a hushed afterthought, betraying his own apprehension.  
  
Suddenly remembering the weight of the object in his hand, Noctis pulls himself from his thoughts and extends the gift to Prompto, empty hand habitually falling to rest on his hip. “It’s for you. Apparently it was just laying around. Dad says you should have it.”  
  
Prompto cocks his head in confusion, looking first to Noctis for an explanation that Noctis withholds with a smile. Quirking an eyebrow, Prompto instead closes some of the distance between them, finally eyeing the object at some proximity. Coming to realize what it is, his jaw slacks open and blue eyes begin to gleam in excitement as he allows his hands to hover at either side of the gift.  
  
“For _me? Really?!_ ”  
  
“Of course. No one can make better use of it than you can.” Noctis nods toward the present, a gesture which Prompto takes as invitation to accept it. “Dad says you should use it to record our travels, maybe make an album for the wedding.”  
  
Noctis crosses his arms behind his head as he eyes Prompto, who’s excitedly thumbing at the controls on the camera, mumbling to himself about things like the model and the resolution. It’s lost on him, but he doesn’t interrupt, instead seating himself on a nearby bench.  
  
With nothing else to look at, he finds his eyes, too, drawn to the ornate mural. They follow sharp, exact lines to a crystal shaped in the center of the relief.  
  
_It’s all going to end tomorrow._  
  
Beginnings always do often seem to demand the sacrifice of an end.  
  
A fleeting flash and the click of a shutter bring Noctis back to the present, a mumbled ‘Huh?’ and a knee-jerk reaction pulling his forearm in front of his eyes.  
  
“Sorry Noct, couldn’t help but want to try it out! Plus, your expression made for the perfect shot!”  
  
“Wait, seriously?” Easily recovering, Noctis rises from his seat to walk over to Prompto, peering from the side to the screen of the camera. “ _Huh._ I guess you’re right. It ain’t half-bad.”  
  
“Right?”

 

 

“So _that’s_ what you’ve been hiding this whole time. Definitely not what I expected.”  
  
Time and circumstance inevitably bring the Crownsguard to the Imperial Capital of Gralea. The paths of each individual party member may have diverged and converged occasionally, but now, they find themselves together in a safe room—a scarcely outfitted dormitory—of the imperial stronghold, resting for the struggle ahead.  
  
Just prior, a certain member’s branded code print had become very useful for gaining access to more highly secure areas of the base, the truth of its origin—at least in part—coming out naturally with the proceedings.  
  
Now, acceptance of that truth is something that comes easily for all but one; ironically, the one who has coveted the idea of that acceptance for as long as he can remember.  
  
The weight carried symbolically on a wrist is one that is years old, each year compounding and solidifying that weight further. The truth could very well have been a cursed spell that he was determined to never speak—for it would kill the caster—and Prompto thinks he could have been very satisfied if that had been the penultimate outcome.  
  
But now, with that spell dripping half-used from bloodied lips, he finds that release from its grip doesn’t come so easily.  
  
“Yeah, well.” Noctis notices Prompto’s hand instinctively move to cover his wrist, eyes turned outward to look anywhere but the king. “It’s not something I’d ever expect… someone to expect. I didn’t believe it either, to be honest.” There’s a dry chuckle to punctuate the thought, a taut smile.  
  
Noctis chooses to be silent for a beat, opting instead to fixate on the back of Prompto’s head. Where Prompto shifts forward in posture, Noctis shifts backwards, resting his weight onto his elbow. More questions linger at his lips, but eyeing the reddened gashes that litter Prompto’s face, he decides to either let Prompto be forthcoming, or to wait until a better time.  
  
“But it’s the truth, y’know.” Prompto seems more adamant about convincing himself than anyone else, his voice and eyes distant as fingers scratch against branded pale skin. “I… saw it with my own eyes. There were… thousands of them, in these… these tubes. They looked... exactly like me. We’ve always seen them covered by those masks, so it was easy to ignore, but…”  
  
Lifting his hands to hold his head by either side, Prompto shakes it with a harsh exhale. “Nevermind, sorry. Thinking out loud.”  
  
Noctis eyes the barcode, now in full view as Prompto lowers his arms to rest on his knees. The reddened splotch that had come of the grazing of fingernails is familiar, realization prompting his expression to soften. “It’s fine. Say whatever you want.”  
  
Prompto’s lips slacken around a half-formed word before shutting again as he abandons it, shielding his gaze from scrutiny.  
  
Noctis almost expects the quiet he gets in turn, as he watches, in profile, Prompto reel and lurch desperately for what he wanted to say.  
  
He realizes that Prompto’s never been one to be very forthcoming with many of his deeper thoughts, often concealing them behind an excitable, plain-spoken exterior. A deep-rooted and perceived inferiority, Noctis supposes, a mild frown forming on his lips as he finds himself at a loss of how to remedy it.  
  
Wandering curiosity brings Noctis’ hand to Prompto’s, slipping his own underneath to lift the other’s from his leg. He gingerly lifts his other hand to graze the brand, tracing the redness that stands out so clearly on Prompto’s pale skin.  
  
Thinly veiled tremors wash over Prompto’s body, and in response, Noctis takes a firmer grasp on his hand. Pulling back his roaming finger, the king finally is able to get a good look at the inked barcode. He’s ill-equipped to read the meaning in stripes and digits, but looking again at a freckled and marred face, it’s the stark perfection of the code print that startles him.  
  
At a loss for words and a desperate want to convey meaning, Noctis brushes a gentle kiss against the tattooed wrist.  
  
He feels Prompto’s frame still first, the hitch of his already shallow breath second. He hovers for a moment, allowing his breath to warm the skin there, before raising his head and meeting his friend’s wide eyes.  
  
He could laugh, really, watching crimson spread from Prompto’s cheeks to his ears.  
  
And he does; it’s a breathy and hushed sound, through closed lips as a smile curves.  
There’s something in the flabbergasted expression that brings Noctis back to more carefree times, and more than anything, the looseness of it, the genuinity of it, is more than he’s been able to see for hours, days, _weeks._  
  
It’s then that the king leans forward, and presses a smiling kiss to Prompto’s lips. Underneath, he feels Prompto freeze. It takes a moment, but feeling the flutter of eyelids closing, Noctis feels Prompto begin to reciprocate.  
  
Prompto’s lips are cold and cracked in places; consequences from circumstances that Noctis can only guess at. But, instead of vying for an account of said circumstances, he’s content to simply warm them for now.  
  
As much of a genuine expression of affection as the kiss may be, Noctis still forces it to be brief, pulling away gently after a couple of seconds.  
  
He does, however, maintain his grip on Prompto’s hand; a warm, wide grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he returns to his prior posture.  
  
“Well, you promised to be ‘ever at my side’, right? You can tell me what you need to anytime. I’ll be here to listen.”

 

 

Back then, little did either know that the opportunity to talk so amiably—no, the opportunity to speak at all—could and would be vanquished for a decade after, with Noctis being consumed by the crystal of light. Protected by the forbears of the Lucian monarchy, it’s almost laughably ironic that he, the Chosen of the Kings of Lucis, would then be taken by it.  
  
In this instance, there’s no one to laugh at the irony.  
  
During that time, a permanent daemon-infested night proves good enough of an occupation for the world as a whole, and especially the now-crownless Crownsguard. Hanging around two illuminated havens in the seemingly boundless and eternal dark—Lestallum and Hammerhead—becomes the norm for them, as does hunting the hordes of daemons.  
  
The lack of organic signals of time’s passage means that naturally, everyone takes on a different schedule. After all, an eternal night means that high danger will be constant. Naturally, then, the remaining three—Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto—soon find themselves hunting alone, to cover more ground, to kill more daemons.  
  
Prompto is forced to become more self-reliant, hunting around Hammerhead more often than not. It takes some time, but soon he’s soon a force to be reckoned with, a gun in one hand, deadly machinery in the other.  
  
Come warmer nights necessitating shorter sleeves, he finds that feeling okay about baring his code print in open air is something that, too, comes with time. The time for this is considerably longer than just building on his fighting, but being alone more often than not makes the sometimes admittedly excessive donning of accessories seem, well, excessive.  
  
But, more than that, there is no longer so much a deep-seated drive to conceal it; his friends know the truth, and strangers don’t often ask. It isn’t like civilians, or even hunters, are able to see beneath the MT’s armor to see the code prints there; they can’t see behind the grotesque green mask to see what was formed beneath.  
  
No one talks about the King of Lucis.  
  
Quiet, dim hopes expressed subtly in small gestures and phrases come at an increasingly lower rate, and soon, even when the old party—or what’s left of it—eats together, it’ll more often than not be in relative silence.  
  
Prompto never even thinks to tell anyone about the kiss in Gralea. There was never a need. A sacred moment shared between two people, it’s something he holds close to his heart. More than that, Prompto fears that allowing others to be privy to it would alter its meaning from a moment of pure love, untitled because it didn’t need a title, to something unnecessarily scrutinized and placed within standards that neither he nor Noctis seemed to wholly comprehend at the time.  
  
Maybe it’s that memory that makes it bearable for him to lay eyes on his barcode.  
Years continue like this, and eventually, everything starts to blur together. Going through the motions without much thought allows days and weeks and months to go by without much damage; three years pass when they realize that things will likely not go back to the way they were, and three more do before they begin to accept that it might stay like this forever.  
  
Longer periods away from light and longer periods away from other people allow for optimism to wane without much detection, numbed in the throes of battle.  
It was two years ago that Prompto’s strength began to outmatch the varmints that lurked around Hammerhead. But he doesn’t mind; occasionally, a big, nasty, uncommonly strong daemon will spawn and spice things up a bit.  
He’s hanging around the diner when the news comes. He doesn’t hear it directly from the source, no; he hears it through the grapevine as murmurs pass through Hammerhead, now less of a garage than it was a haven for those hunting the daemons. Wilting a bit at that, he sighs as he presses his chin into his hand, propped up by an elbow on the counter.  
  
_“King Noctis is on his way to Hammerhead. Talcott found him.”_  
  
While not something he’d grown accustomed to hearing by any means, Prompto is hesitant to allow the excitement that should be roused by those words overcome him just yet. Glancing out the window is a stark reminder that everything is just the same as it was a moment ago, a week ago, a year ago.  
  
Crossing a leg over his knee, Prompto slouches backwards as he stretches his arms with a groan. He doesn’t bother to look when he hears the door to the diner open, and it’s only when a large hand is levied onto his shoulder that he jolts back to reality.  
  
“Hey! Blondie, it’s been some time, huh?” Prompto expects the husky voice from behind him, but it’s the one that comes from his side that startles him more.  
  
“Indeed. It’s good to see you well.”  
  
“Gladio, Ignis! Long time no see. How are things in Lestallum?”  
  
“Same as always,” Gladiolus remarks, running his hand through his hair.  
  
“Ah.” Prompto’s response comes as a nondescript vocalization, as he twists in the bar stool he is seated in. “That’s good. What brings you to Hammerhead?”  
  
“Cindy called all of us. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the news.”  
  
Gladio’s answer is the first time in a while that Prompto can feel a flutter in his heart. So it was real. “I heard it, just didn’t believe it, is all.”  
  
“Neither did we,” Ignis admits. “But Cid said he could hear him over the phone. They’re driving from Galdin Quay.”  
  
Almost on cue, a pair of headlights shines in through the dusty windows of the diner. “You think that’s…?”  
  
“We’ll have to go see.” Ignis responds before Prompto can even choke out the entire question, both he and Gladio already taking strides towards the door. Prompto closes the distance in a few clumsy steps, slowing to a walk as they make their way outside.  
  
“Noct! It’s really you!” If anyone had spoken before he had, Prompto hadn’t registered it. There’s strain in his voice, he himself still trying to convince himself of what he sees before him. Pulling at Ignis’ arm, he looks for another opinion.  
  
“You’ve kept us waiting,” Ignis says easily.  
  
“Not like I wanted to,” Noctis finally says, his eyes glistening.

 

 

“Hey, Prompto, you have a sec?”  
  
“Noct!” Scrambling to his feet, Prompto realizes a moment later that his response was way too eager. He pauses to compose himself before responding properly, stepping out of the tent. “Yeah, of course. What is it, Noct?”  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
Prompto doesn’t question it. He simply follows Noctis to the other side of the camp grounds, where Noctis sits himself down. Prompto eagerly sits next to him, wiping already teary eyes with his forearm. “Er, sorry, I just—”  
  
“It’s fine, Prompto.” Noctis doesn’t mean for it to come out as curt as it did, but he doesn’t linger on it for long, voice softening as he turns his face outward to the darkness. “You… owe me a story.”  
  
“Oh, please, I don’t owe you _anything!_ ” An attempted joke, it’s accompanied by a bittersweet smile and a weak punch to his forearm. Prompto finds that the smile doesn’t fade, even as he crosses his arms to have his hands meet in his lap. From this angle, he can see the barcode clearly, and so can Noctis.  
  
“But fine. If you’re willing to listen, Your Majesty, I’d…” Prompto pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’d love to tell you... who I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello! if you've made it to the end, thanks, it means a lot!  
> if you want to, you can come say hi on [my twitter](https://twitter.com/arsophans)!


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